


It Is a Wise One That Admits the Truth

by HSavinien



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Feelings Realization, Flirting, Kissing, Love Confessions, Lowered inhibitions, M/M, Mid-Canon, Quest of Erebor, Sex, Sex Pollen, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27942908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSavinien/pseuds/HSavinien
Summary: Balin and Dwalin, scouting on the quest, find themselves afflicted by some flower pollen that causes sneezing, discomfort, and slightly looser tongues than normal. They tell some interested parties the truth in the privacy of the night.
Relationships: Balin/Dori (Tolkien), Bofur/Dwalin (Tolkien)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15
Collections: Have A Happy Hobbit Holiday 2020





	It Is a Wise One That Admits the Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Estethell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estethell/gifts).



> Happy holidays, Estethell! I hope you enjoy it. Grateful thanks to Saviobriion for beta.

The sons of Fundin volunteered to scout around the first camp they made after leaving Hobbiton. They had only barely left the bounds of halfling-country, and Bilbo claimed there was little danger to be had, but Dwalin expressed to Thorin his belief that fully a third of the Company could not be trusted not to fall into a beehive given the opportunity, and Thorin sighed and bade them go.

They did not find a beehive, nor any animal-sign that pointed to something large or vicious enough to be a danger (barring a snorting bull behind a very sturdy fence), nor any fast water or cliffs. What they did find, much to the dismay of their dignity, was a patch of wildflowers. They were small, innocuous blue-petaled things, and neither dwarf paid them much heed until Dwalin’s boots raised a cloud of pollen that set them to violent sneezing. His eyes streaming, Balin muffled his mouth and nose in his sleeve. Dwalin pulled the collar of his shirt up to cover the lower half of his face and flailed until he grabbed a handful of greenery, then they stumbled back to the camp by the little pond, choking on it all the way.

“Don’t touch!” Balin managed to gasp, waving Thorin away when their leader rushed toward the distressed dwarves. “Stay back.”

Dwalin tripped over a rock and went in headfirst, dropping the plants in the process. Balin, more fortunate, stopped in time to get his belt undone and shrugged off his coat and kicked off his boots before plunging into the pond, ducking under the water. 

The whole Company gathered on the water’s edge, raising a hubbub of confusion, with Bilbo Baggins, their brand new burglar, hanging off to one side and looking bewildered. 

"What could they possibly have got into?" Bilbo asked. 

"Dwalin dropped something," Ori called. "Come see." The young scribe prodded gingerly at the handful of vegetation with a stick, teasing out bits to make it easier to identify beyond a muddled mass of greenery, and Bilbo stared at it in confusion.

“Why, I know those flowers,” he said, picking up one of the small blue blooms and sniffing at it to check. “That’s only sweetmeadow. I can’t think what’s got into them over it.”

“What’s that?” Óin demanded of Ori.

“The burglar says it’s called sweetmeadow!” Ori said into the ear-trumpet. “He can’t think why they’re making such a fuss!”

“Sorry!” Bilbo said, more loudly. “It’s an herb! Not harmful at all! Just makes hobbits a bit giggly if used in cooking!”

“Hrmph, well. Get away from it, youngster, no reason to find out if you’re susceptible as well,” Óin said, waving Ori off. 

Dwalin emerged onto the bank, panting and blowing water like an oliphant, face and head red with exertion and sneezing. Balin came up for air, beard and hair sodden and plastered to him. Dori offered him a hand out of the pond and a spare woolen blanket, and Balin accepted with a wobbly bow, scrubbing himself to dry off a little, though he still looked dazed and bleary. Fíli and Kíli pulled Dwalin up and escorted him to the fire Bofur was stoking. He stripped down to shirt and trousers, collapsing on a log and emptying his boots. 

Óin stumped over to inspect them, peering down their throats and into their eyes. "Allergy, I suppose. Something particular to Dwarves or to your family, or just ill luck perhaps, but tell us where you found the wretched plant and the rest of us will avoid it just in case."

Dwalin made the report, detailing where they’d gone and the general environment. “There were no other dangers that we found, so long as nobody decides to trifle with a farmer’s bull,” he told Thorin, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Balin nodded agreement. Óin, who had been pressing two fingers to Balin's throat and the other hand to his forehead, frowned. “Your heart is too fast still and your blood is running hot. Bide a while and get dry. Dwalin...” He repeated the check. “You’re the same. I don’t fancy you keeling over the first time you exert yourself. Someone fetch them water to drink, but let it not be too cold. And no liquor,” he added sharply to Bofur, who grinned, and Nori, who shrugged, tucking flasks back into whatever pockets they’d pulled them out of.

The dwarves busied themselves setting up camp. With two of their number out of commission, the rhythm of the Company was a little off and Bilbo, stepping in to help Bombur with the cookpot, nearly got trodden on a couple of times and had to be whisked out of the way by Dori when Bifur came trundling over with a pile of firewood so tall that Bilbo couldn’t be seen beneath it. They pulled together a passable meal nonetheless, with sausages and coal-baked potatoes and onions (and cornmeal cakes for afters), and everyone ate up cheerfully, though Balin and Dwalin remained subdued and quiet all the evening. 

Thorin took the first watch and set Fíli and Kíli on the later ones, ordering the sons of Fundin to rest and recover after their trying day, then went ranging out beyond the flickers of the damped firelight and the scattered familial groups of resting dwarves. 

* * *

_Balin tossed fitfully in his bedroll, too warm and unable to settle. It seemed that every knotted tree-root and stone in the camp pressed into his back. It was shaming, feeling so sensitive to the everyday realities of travel, as if he was a pampered noble instead of an old campaigner used to suffering far more discomfort in the service of his king without a second thought. But oh, right now he wanted softness and comfort very badly. He was tired and aching with wanting._

There was a rustle and a solid body settled lightly beside Balin. A cool hand brushed his forehead, then his cheek, fluffing his now-dry beard. His eyes drifted open and the moonlit sheen of silver hair in intricate braids told him who had come to his side. "Master Dori," he murmured, mouth dry and tongue awkward. "Your pardon if I disturbed you."

"No pardon needed," Dori said. "I hadn't yet gone to my bedroll when I heard your restlessness. Are you in pain?"

Balin smoothed his beard in embarrassment. "No, only muzzy-headed and feeling every root in the forest. It will pass."

Dori's careful, broad fingers found their way into his hair. "Tch, you don't braid it for bed?" he scolded. "If you are well enough, sit up so I can fix it for you. Stiffbeard you may be and go without braids during the day, but that's no excuse for neglecting proper nighttime tidiness. No wonder it takes so long to brush it nicely."

And lightheaded and leaning into the touch, Balin found himself sat up with Dori crosslegged behind him on the bedroll, setting to work with a widetoothed comb and pot of hair oil that seemed to come from thin air. Perhaps Dori had been taking lessons from the wizard. Dori's knees cradled him snugly, and Balin found he was breathing more deeply and raggedly than was proper. 

Strong fingers worked the comb through his hair with care, picking out knots without pulling. As he did so, Dori talked. He spoke of the weather and the hunting, the last gossip he'd heard before they set out from the Blue Mountains; little, pleasant things that could have graced any noble court. It was soothing, or should have been, but the pleasant voice soft and intimate behind him and the confident, gentle fingers twisting his hair into a thick braid heated his face. At every touch, Dori’s fingers pressed the tension from his scalp and sparked tingling chills down his body. Nearly gasping, Balin slumped forward as Dori tied off his hair, burying his face in his hands. 

"Again, I beg your pardon, Master Dori. I am…overwrought and cannot provide good conversation. I feel as if everything were magnified, as if your pleasant touch were inflaming my senses.” His chest heaved on a breath. “I would not overstep by taking what is offered in companionship for a more personal overture."

The dwarf behind him paused for a moment, then Dori’s strong, gentle hands were on Balin again, pressing warm into the knotted muscle of his shoulders. "If a personal overture was not offered, perhaps your companion was unsure it would be welcomed." 

"Most welcome," Balin whispered. He shuddered, _wanting_ more than he could say, but then he was wrapped in Dori's arms, pulled close, surrounded and comforted and aroused all at once.

Dori murmured, "Such a handsome picture you make, flustered by a simple touch. Would you like me to-"

"Yes," Balin choked out, pressing back into his embrace. "I am at your mercy, Dori, anything, please." His face was hot and he was relieved when Dori turned his head and caught his mouth. He breathed into the kiss, bewildered and thrilled. Dori’s mouth was warm, sharp and sweet, and Balin opened to it like he was falling. 

After too short a time, Dori bit down gently on his lip until he gasped, then pulled back. Balin made an undignified noise and Dori returned, shifting so that they faced each other, offering him scattered kisses, so quick he hardly had time to register one touch before the next claimed his attention. His mouth, the cheek above his beard, his forehead, the top of one overheated ear… Balin clutched wildly at the back of Dori's head as he fastened the hot mouth on the bare tender skin under his ear.

"Oh, please..." 

Dori's fingers were clever as they were strong - he did dainty work aplenty - but Balin had never seen them do such lovely, quick work as they did in opening his tunic, tracing the inkwork across his chest. Balin took a great breath in, and another, and with every gulp of air he felt more himself and more rooted in this lovely, unlooked-for moment. His nerves sang and his mind lost its fuzziness in the shining gleam of suggestions in Dori’s fine silver eyes.

“My dear Lord Balin, what would you have of me?”

“I would not hear ‘Lord’ from you,” he said, untangling his tongue, and gazed upon Dori as the treasure he was. “But if I am dear to you, I would gladly accept all that you will give and no more, and offer to you all that you wish of me.” It was easier to speak now, as if Dori’s mouth had unstopped his words.

“Now don’t go saying things you might regret by daylight,” Dori said quietly, eyes flitting away and cheek warming under Balin’s hand even as he leaned away. “I am of no great line and no high craft. I’d take no harm from a tumble and a kiss and a faretheewell.” 

“I would do it if you ask, but,” Balin said, setting his free hand on one of Dori’s, “it would honor me greatly if you would accept more. I have no noble hall nor fine dowry to offer you. Blood is as it is, but I’ve put my hands to tasks less worthy than the making of fine clothing and I would be foolish to disdain a craftsman when my king’s heirs are the children of a stonemason as well as a princess.”

Dori tsked and sighed, and Balin brought his hand up to press a careful kiss to the back. “I trod much steadier ground when I thought this was a matter of lust,” he told Balin.

Balin gazed at him, admiring the mithril glints of starlight in his hair. He had not yet said _no_ and that seemed like a good sign. “I am delighted to surprise you.” Balin turned Dori's hand over and kissed the palm, then the strong tendon of his wrist. "Whatever you desire, if it is in my power, I would give it to you."

"Foolishness," Dori said, and kissed him near senseless again, his mouth nipping and hot and dangerous. "I'll think on it. In the meantime, will you stop promising things you oughtn't and tell me if you'd rather have your prick in my mouth or mine in yours?"

Balin sighed against him. "Both?" he managed after the moment it took to find the word. 

Dori chuckled. "Not at the same time, my dear- Balin. I find it too distracting. I'll tend to you first and see if you can manage the second round."

Dori arranged him lounging, back against his pack and settled between his legs, lashes fluttering wickedly as he unlaced Balin's trousers and made himself at home. The hot brush of his mouth teased over the linen of Balin's drawers and Balin knotted his hands into the bedroll as that unaccountable tongue tasted the damp spot he’d left there. Balin shuddered, his knees tightening reflexively. Dori’s hands kneaded his thighs, pressing them apart again to settle his lovely round bulk between them more securely, then Dori’s teeth closed on the tie of Balin’s drawers and tugged, and Balin’s face flamed. 

The night air was chill on his overheated skin, but the contrast between the cool and the wet heat of Dori’s mouth was enough to make Balin’s blood rush and his hips buck. Dori _tsk_ ed and then Balin was held firm, pinned in place for Dori’s pleasure. Dori’s tongue was a firm-flickering-flitting-anchor, as Dori toyed with him, pressing at his slit to make him cry out, then tracing down the large vein to make him groan. Dori wrapped a firm hand around him, moving as steadily and inexorably as a well-greased pump and teased at his stones with nose and lips. He breathed out a puff of hot air, then mouthed slick over them until Balin was shivering and holding himself back for dear life. “Lovely, fuzzy and heavy,” Dori murmured against his skin.

Balin groaned, and a little spurt of fluid spattered shining on Dori’s cheek. 

“Oh yes, more of that, my dear,” Dori said, and wrapped his lips around Balin’s length, suckling at the head with an inescapable sweetness while his hand still moved up and down, driving him like a steam boiler, and Balin threw an arm over his eyes, completely undone at the sight. His body bowed up and he was lost, dissolving into a molten pool beneath the beautiful dwarf between his legs.

When Balin returned to his senses, Dori was stroking his legs and stomach comfortingly - broad, warm, firm strokes that felt like they were molding him back into himself - and looking smug.

“My dear Dori,” Balin managed after a moment. “You are a marvel. I shall do my best to live up to your talents, only give my poor brain a chance to stop reeling.”

Dori laughed at him, gathered him up into his arms, and kissed him again, which was entirely counterproductive.

* * *

  
_Dwalin stared up at the stars, feeling as though the world was spinning away below him. He didn’t often get the vertigo that some stoneborn dwarves were prone to, but this felt very like that. His face felt warm and raw still, his eyes hot, and he was as tired as if he’d spent the day at a forced march instead of the nearly strolling pace that the ragtag Company required. It was a relief, a very great relief, when the night sky disappeared altogether._

A soft _plop_ and the stars went away in a brush of fur, the pipesmoke-and-lanolin warmth of Bofur’s hat covering his eyes and bringing him back to himself.

“You look a mess,” Bofur told him. “Stop gaping at the stars, you’ll do yourself a mischief.”

Dwalin batted the hat off his face and rolled onto his side to watch Bofur instead, who settled, leaning back on his hands and gazing upward, face soft. “And you won’t?”

“I was born under open sky, like Thorin’s heirs. Makes us a bit immune to being dazed by it. I do see why Durin got all dazzled by them in the Kheled-zâram," he added thoughtfully. "They’re like a scatter of tiny diamonds - pretty things, if distant.”

"The reflection," Dwalin said. It seemed very important to get things right. 

"Yes, yes, the lord of the dwarves sat gazing at the _reflection_ of stars like a crown upon his brow and then went and founded Khazad-dûm and so on," Bofur said, chuckling.

Dwalin made an agreeing sort of sound. He watched Bofur and traced a finger along the stitching of the hat, which was still under his hand. "Want your hat back?"

"Eventually," he said. "It seems to be helping you right now."

It was, somehow, like the reality of its texture and scent helped to anchor him. Dwalin knew of few things more down-to-earth than a miner's hat. He felt the weight of stone under his hip - ribs - shoulder even through the thick loam of hobbit country. His hand rested on the hat and his eyes on Bofur. "You're kind," he said. 

“I do my best. And I imagine everyone else is as well, which helps.” Bofur stretched and sighed at the audible _crack_ from his shoulder. “Ah…”

“Old injury?”

“Nothing so grand. It’s done that since I was a pebble. Bifur said our grandparent was the same.”

“Have you ever seen a battle?”

“Not like you mean by it. Chased a couple of stray orcs off the pack pony when we were traveling with my cousin to sell toys once, but truth be told that was mostly me yelling while Bifur terrified the wits out of them.”

Dwalin nodded. That was sensible. Bifur was one of the fiercest warriors they’d got, even with the injury. “I reckon you’ll do all right when it comes to axes and shields. You’re a steady one.”

“I never thought you’d be one to murmur compliments to a fellow on a starry night,” Bofur said. Dwalin saw his teeth flash. “You’re not nearly the grumbly bear that you make yourself out to be.”

“I’m plenty- I can grumble and tell you the truth too,” he protested. “Don’t have to be a woolly lamb to see you’re a fine dwarf.”

“Well, thank you. Though, bear isn’t quite right, is it?” Bofur cut himself off and looked guilty.

“Thorin’s hound, I’ve heard it before,” Dwalin said. “‘S all right. I don’t mind it. Thorin’s my king and friend and cousin. There’s honor in loyalty, even when sometimes the king’s a depressed arse. I love the fucker like a sibling.”

“I imagine it does Thorin good, having someone around willing to rub mud in a king’s hair and match drinks in a pub.”

“Aye, probably,” Dwalin chuckled. “You should join me at the pub next time. I’d bet you’re a good lad for a pint and a song.”

“That’s me,” Bofur agreed. “Now, are you flirting with me a’purpose or is it just happening because you’re swozzled from those flowers?”

Dwalin gave that due consideration. “Dunno,” he concluded. “I’ve fancied you for a while, though.”

“Grand,” Bofur said. ‘’You’re a fine fellow yourself and I enjoy watching you swan around being giant and muscly.”

Dwalin clenched his hand on the hat and flexed until his bicep showed through his shirt.

“Whooof, right, like that,” Bofur said happily.

Dwalin buried his face in his arm and chuckled. Bofur laughed and scooted up next to him, thigh against Dwalin’s arm. He was warm and lean-muscled, a comforting weight beside Dwalin.

“My family sleeps like the kings of old,” Bofur informed him. “If you’re in your right mind, I wouldn’t say no to some canoodling.”

“Aye, all right. Come on, then,” Dwalin said, peering up at him.

Bofur grinned and leaned down for a kiss, friendly and whiskery. Dwalin opened to it with a laugh and slung an arm around him, pulling Bofur over on top of himself with a startled huff of air. Bofur recovered and set about snogging the breath out of him, petting his scalp and grabbing at his ears for leverage. Dwalin returned the favor and petted down his back to plant both hands on his arse and pull him close, both their cocks perking and nudging at each other with the contact. Bofur broke free to breathe after a few minutes and snatched up his discarded hat, pulling it onto Dwalin’s head and bumping noses with him. “Your ears are cold!” he scolded. “You ought to have said.”

Dwalin grinned. “You are a sweet fellow. Don’t fret, I’ll warm up soon enough.” He ran a finger up and down the sway of Bofur’s back, charting shivers. “You seem a little chilled yourself. Come on and have another kiss?”

Bofur’s tongue licked into his mouth and Dwalin nipped just enough to make him squirm. He opened his legs to let Bofur snug into him. Bofur groaned enthusiastically, hips hitching back against his hands, then forward, rutting against him with a comfortable shudder at the contact. 

“Fine hammer you’ve got there,” Bofur panted. 

Dwalin groaned as Bofur squirmed, and shoved his hand up the back of Bofur’s jacket to try to find skin. Bofur rolled off just enough to reach his belt and jerked it open one-handed. “All right?” he asked, nuzzling into Dwalin’s beard to nip at the thin skin of his throat. He poked at Dwalin's belt buckle inquiringly. 

Dwalin hissed assent, too busy skinning Bofur's trousers down to help. He got one hand on Bofur's bare arse and gave it a good squeeze, hitching him up and making him swear as his hand got trapped between them. Bofur freed himself and grabbed Dwalin's other hand, sucking two fingers into his mouth and teasing them with his tongue. Dwalin's whole body twitched at the slick, strong press of tongue along the pads of his fingers and his hips rocked up, their bare pricks sliding between them. Bofur made a muffled complaint and let Dwalin's fingers go with a slurp. 

"Get that slick around our cocks, my lad. I don't want chafing on my sensitive bits when we're marching tomorrow."

Dwalin kissed his wet mouth and did as told, wrapping his fingers around his and Bofur's pricks together. Bofur bucked against him, hot and hard in his hand, and Dwalin groaned. Bofur, toes dug into the dirt between Dwalin's calves and arse flexing under his hand, set a quick thrusting pace. His whiskers scratched against Dwalin's and one of his braids was loose, wavy dark hair coming free and tickling over Dwalin's chest. He was hard, slight strength under Dwalin's hands, a bright eyed tease, kissing him one moment, then pulling away the next to grin at Dwalin's lust-fuddled gasp as his hips moved in a very nice way. Dwalin lifted his chin in entreaty and those bright eyes gentled, and their mouths locked again, Bofur's teeth nibbling and tongue exploring the best ways to make him lose rhythm. He was quicker off the mark, even so. 

Bofur's eyes fluttered and Dwalin twisted his hand, catching the first burst as Bofur came and using it to slick them both, thrusting up into the mess they'd made, until Dwalin shuddered too and muffled a yell into Bofur's shoulder. 

Bofur panted in his arms for a few seconds, then started squirming. Dwalin let him go reluctantly, but he only pulled a large embroidered handkerchief out of his jacket, shook crumbs out of it, and used it to mop them mostly dry, then flopped back on top of Dwalin and knocked the air out of him a bit. 

"All right if I sleep here?" Bofur asked, peering up one-eyed from his sprawl across Dwalin's chest. 

"Aye, I'd say so. Can you reach the blanket?"

After some more squirming, Bofur managed to hook a boot into it and drag it into range. Together, they mostly managed to get themselves covered, and, oddly enough, Dwalin nodded straight off to sleep, blanketed by a welcome, snoring weight. 


End file.
